


Oh, Blue Jay

by starrelia



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Cisgender, Emotional Manipulation, Ghosts, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Relationships, M/M, Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6533680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrelia/pseuds/starrelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his line of work, Rhys has slept with an abnormal amount of people of different types. Assholes, virgins, businessmen, shameful and shameless, the list goes on. It's gotten to the point where Rhys can count on one hand the types of people he has yet to sleep with.</p><p>And now, he can add 'spirit' to the list of people he has apparently had sex with, and is <i>still</i> having sex with. He's not quite sure how to explain this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Blue Jay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lasciel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasciel/gifts).



> SO I've been rereading leddie's tmtc AU over and over again, and I've _also tried to draft this fic three times now._ I am very tired and very sad, but all you need to know is that Ledgem's fics are very good, they are a very good, and I am so happy I was able to come across her writing.
> 
> I'm still tired. Also this has nothing to do with TMTC AU at all.
> 
> If you think I need to change the rating, please do tell me because I'm not too entirely sure myself?
> 
> Edit: I forgot to gift this.

He’s three hours early to work. It’s rare that he’s this early, but something in his blood is singing and telling him to be extra on-time, and Brick is there when he gets to the brothel first thing in the morning. He looks at Rhys with one arched eyebrow, arms crossed in front of him, and a toothy grin on his scarred face. “Pretty damn early for work, huh?” Brick says, his hands reaching down to pluck out the dainty [in comparison to him] keys from his belt to unlock the door inside. “Moxx is in if ya need her.”

“Thanks, Brick,” Rhys says, his mood awfully high and happy and Brick is shaking his head at him. He waves him inside and Rhys adds a little flare to the way he spins inside, and the chuckle that follows after is worth the small embarrassment. He closes the door behind him, and Brick locks it up the moment it’s shut, and Rhys heads off over to where Moxxi is looking over her little appointment book.

He slide onto one of the stools in front of the little bar of the place, and Moxxi looks up at him with an amused smile and a cock of her hips. “Hey there, sugar,” she says, and Rhys just smiles at her before he’s leaning forward to peek at the book, “you’ve got a _busy day_ ahead of you.” She taps the book with one fine nail, and Rhys winces at the amount of times he can see his name in all of the lists.

“Damn.” He murmurs, and then makes a face when he recognises one of the names. “Oh god, no, is that Vasquez? Cancel my appointment with him _right now.”_

She raises an eyebrow at that. “He’s paying good money, honey,” she reasons, and Rhys is just shaking his head at that and leaning as far away from her as he can. “Not doing it,” is his response, and Moxxi sighs at his stubbornness.

Despite the somewhat tortured look on her face, Moxxi reaches into her pocket to scratch his appointment out with her pen and she’s going back a good many pages to find his number to contact him. “That bad the first time, huh?”

“ _Awful._ I _hate_ him, Mox.” He shudders as he recalls the moment and he shakes his head. He crosses his arms on the bar and rests his head on them. She just hums and drums her fingers on the bar, her look equal parts amused and sympathetic, and Rhys tilts his head up to look at her proper—though it’s… hilariously difficult with her breasts in the way. “You wanna pencil yourself in?” he jokes, but there’s a grin on her face that tells him Moxxi is talking him seriously and Rhys flushes.

It’s something to get used to sleeping with women and men, all strangers and people of different looks – some of whom are not even his _tastes_ – and it’s something else to try and get used to the fact that your boss likes to fool around with you (and others of her fancy) sometimes. He shakes his head and straightens his back, tries to appear confident, but Moxxi snaps her fingers and Rhys slumps his shoulders. “You’re gonna-“

“Yup. Anyway, while you’re here, we need to…” she purses her lips, as though wondering how to word whatever she needs to talk about, and Rhys tilts his head to the side, something uneasy settling in his stomach. “I _think_ you have a night an aristocrat.”

At that, his eyes widen and his jaw falls open slightly. “No way?” he asks, and Moxxi is looking at him sternly to let him know that, _no,_ she is not joking around here. “Then—wait, an _aristocrat?_ Seriously?”

“I _think_ it’s an aristocrat. Listen—he came here in person an hour after you left and ten minutes before we were gonna close. He was dressed all… nice, sugar, but something about him seemed off. For some reason, he kept asking for _you_ in specific, and asked that it be at night only. Now, I can’t tell if he was trying to protect his reputation-“

“Definitely trying to protect his reputation. Who would—I mean, he’s… he’s rich, right?” Rhys leans in close, interest showing all over him, and something wicked flashes on Moxxi’s face.

Her lips part into a sweetly sinister grin, something that drips with approval at his attitude, before her expression is back to its pure neutrality. “He offered ten thousand.”

There’s a silence that stretches out over them both, Moxxi deliberately staying quiet to let that sink in, and Rhys’s eyes widen and his mouth parts ever so slightly as he tries to digest the information.

 _Ten grand._ The man offered _ten grand_ for one night with Rhys. Sure, he’s not going to be able to keep most of it but— _holy shit. **Ten grand.**_ He whistles at that and Moxxi snorts, her nails drumming on the counter and soothing Rhys’s nerves ever so slightly. “Did you get his name?”

“John.” Moxxi responds blankly, and Rhys’s brows furrow as he looks at her. “No, sugar, before you ask—yes. That is what he gave me. Just _John._ To make sure I don’t _confuse_ him, he drew a mask next to the name. He didn’t give me a number either.”

“… So, if you cancelled, what are you going to do—?”

“Do you _want—“_

“Oh hell no, _ten grand Mox!_ I mean, I'm not sure if you've noticed," Moxxi snorts, "but that’s way more than I make in six months. I’m just, y’know, askin’, gotta cover my bases and all that. Because this sounds far too good to be true.”

She tsks. “I thought so too, honey. We tested him and he’s safe; _almost_ forgot the most important part. But, to answer your ‘covering bases’ question; he said that he’d come in person, ask if you’re available, and leave if you’re not. I have a feelin’ that even if you aren’t available, sugar, he’s still gonna make another appointment.”

“Something about that man reeks to me, but I am _not_ going to say no to money that big, especially not from a… _charmingly_ handsome fellow.” Moxxi says, the emphasis on ‘charmingly’ oozing with acid and sarcasm, and Rhys shakes his head. “Anyway, you still have _lotsa_ time before showtime, sugar, so why don’t you go out back and stretch those long legs of yours? I have a call to a very unpleasant man to make.”

He shrugs and slips away from her as she heads off to pick up the phone, dread on Moxxi’s face as she drags the book close with Vasquez’s number to call the oily man. He makes his way past all the empty tables, past the stage and its pole, and he slips out into the room where all the other prostitutes take their time to look nice and desirable for their clients.

There’s a simple looking bed in one of the backrooms, mostly there for anyone who gets sick rather than _actual_ work [all the work is upstairs, where only the prostitutes have the keys to], and a good few simple showers and toilets in the rest. It’s important to look… _proper_ and clean for a job like this, and Rhys wants to laugh.

He pushes the urge away, knowing that Moxxi will _somehow_ hear him and yell at him to ‘quit laughing at something stupid and actually get ready’, and instead heads off to his shared room [with Yvette] to go and change into looking glamorous. If there’s one thing he can _definitely_ say about Moxxi and her brothel-read-strip bar is that she has a knack for making her workers look rich and gorgeous.

Perhaps that’s why she likes running this business—it’s more that she gets to dress them in out dresses and skirts and heels that complement their assets perfectly, than the fact that she wants the money. She has a steady income from somewhere else already, and Rhys tries not to think about the fact that his boss is shady as hell.

He opens his wardrobe and strokes his fingers over the shear dresses, over the dresses that are far too short, and picks out the one that hugs his figure far too tightly. According to Moxxi and what little he saw of her handy little book, Rhys definitely has a lot on his plate today, and he prefers to start the day off looking as nice as a prostitute can look in the eyes of judgmental folk.

In some way, Rhys supposes, he’s dressing up for no one but himself.

* * *

The first client is a nervous woman, surprisingly. Worried about her honeymoon, telling him of how she worries she won’t satisfy her husband despite him too being a virgin. Rhys doesn’t say anything about it, though he does spend his first appointment ever so subtly teaching the woman how to dominate from her position.

He holds her fingers tight and shudders beneath her, playing up his submission for her, and Rhys has to hold back his smile when she actually starts to take control. Her white skin, far too pale and snowy Rhys thinks, contrasts wildly against his own as she presses her legs against his hips and takes control of his pleasure, and more importantly her own.

Soon enough, he gets to see the _actual_ personality of the anxious wreck that came to him with her head bowed down as to avoid being stared at in the strip bar club front. She doesn’t treat him that… well [none of them do, or well, most of them don’t, if Rhys is to be honest] but he watches her leave with a satisfied look on his face and bruises on his hips and legs.

Bite marks litter the left side of his neck, and he rubs at it with a flinch.

Just like most of his clients, he has to reattach his arm at the end of it all and Rhys sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched over and eyes staring out the window into the sky. It’s amazingly early, and Rhys wanders over to one of the drawers to yank it out, grab at his cigarettes and lighter, and he opens the window to the cold outside so that he can smoke in peace.

Smoke and alcohol, smoke and alcohol—though, in Rhys’s case, he only smokes which bothers Moxxi and Melanie to no end. Yvette prefers that he doesn’t actually drink for some reason, but he doesn’t question it and leaves it be.

[Rhys thinks that Yvette likes the smell of smoke, which is why most times she’s hesitant to open the window and let the air clean out.]

The rest of his day essentially follows his schedule. He plays different roles for different clients, and makes sure to note – with his ECHOeye, though horribly outdated as it is – which ones he did like, did not like, and which ones he wants Brick to hunt down and beat the living snot out of.

It’s only when Moxxi is spreading him open and slowly easing into him with one of her favourite strap-ons does he _actually_ remember his final client, and Rhys ends up getting far too excited over the prospect of money during the whole ordeal. He actually, willingly, gives her the multiple orgasms that Rhys is normally too exhausted to give, body abused and used and his orgasm staved off far too often for the pleasures of others.

“You are _way_ too active for someone who has had four kids,” Rhys whines, and Moxxi snorts at him as she wipes his face clean, “like, seriously, how the hell am I gonna handle everyone else now? I think I’m gonna need like… _Viagra_ or something.”

“Oh hush now sugar.” Moxxi says through soft giggles and a slipping and forming accent, “you're still young, you’ve had tougher days, and you’re going to be fine in… the next hour you have left before your next client.”

Rhys groans because, surprise surprise, Moxxi is _right_ and he is definitely going to be fine enough to deal with the next set of clients. He rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in Moxxi’s nice ass pillows, and she’s patting his ass in faux sympathy. “Rest up honey, you deserve it for treatin’ me so well.”

The bed evens out when Moxxi gets up, and Rhys reaches over to her alarm for forty-five minutes later.

A nap sounds nice.

* * *

The day seems to go by in a blur after his nap, and Rhys is just floating along the tediousness of work and business, of clients that don’t care and some that do, and his body is sore like it always is at the end of a busy day. Exhaling, Rhys runs his hands through hair before he sits down to dry it up as quickly as possible.

He has only a few minutes before the rich client appears, and his hair is going to be a mess of puffy dry by the time the man arrives because he’s really, really bad at time management. He goes to style his hair, do something to tame the mess of curls upon his head, when the door to his and Yvette’s room and he tenses up.

“Sooo… Rhys, huh?” an amused voice calls out and he looks over to the door to see a man in a suit far too nice for a place like this with finely gelled hair and, oddest of them all, a mask that attaches to his face with clasps.

When Rhys only stares and says nothing more, he grins and grabs at the lapels of his suit jacket, fingers dancing over the golden lines and the shapes that form – sharp and reminding him of edges upon edges – over the nice cloth. It both fits and does not fit the man at all; there’s a grin on his face far too smug for the perfect coldness and gleam of his outfit, and Rhys looks at him curiously.

“John?” Rhys responds, hands slowly lowering and then pushing a drawer in. “Are you the-“

The man takes long strides to him, and Rhys is rather impressed because, for once, he has someone in equal height as him. He has to look up only slightly due to John’s heels, and he raises one eyebrow when something irritated flashes across his face. “Nah nah, sweetheart. The name’s _Jack;_ but don’t utter that outta the room, huh?”

 _Jack._ He rolls the name around in his head, and guesses that it suits him better than John. “Okay, then, lemme finish. Are you the one with the ten grand?” Rhys murmurs, shoulders squared and eyes evenly staring at Jack, and the man is tilting his head back, affronted almost. “Because if you don’t have the ten grand, you get no service.”

He laughs at Rhys then and wraps one arm around his waist and spins him around in the room. “You bet that I’ve already paid.” Jack growls out, and Rhys shoves at his shoulders and keeps him at a good distance. “You wanna go and ask Mox?”

Narrowing his eyes, he shoves Jack away and brushes his hair quickly, not caring to gel it to perfection, before he’s off to do as his client said. He comes back soon enough, eyes wide in actual surprise to learn that John _has_ paid, that he gave _more_ than the ten he promised, and Rhys just made the worst first impression one can make on a rich man with money to spare.

But when he does return, Jack is sitting in Yvette’s favourite chair and staring at him amused, one leg crossed flat on his knee, and Rhys thinks he did _not_ mess anything up. He closes the door behind him, steps across him and opens his wardrobe to bring out the one dress that _does_ make him look expensive.

This is the only one that he himself picked out. He’s still trying to save money to even be able to afford something like this again, but he strips out of the clothes he picked right out the shower and he doesn’t care that Jack is seeing him naked.

He needs to make up for his awful attitude earlier, for the fight that he put up, because even if Jack ends up treating him like shit…

That’s ten grand. He doesn’t want Jack to demand it back because Rhys messed up. Besides, he can feel Jack’s gaze burning holes into his ass, staring at him as he zips the dress up with some difficulty, and he’s grabbed by him when Rhys is about to go and apply make-up.

“Just the dress is fine,” Jack murmurs, his eyes staring into his in a way that makes Rhys want to collapse, and he looks at him with a single, raised brow. “Well? You gonna lead the way or not, princess?” He resists the urge to frown at Jack, at his agitating mouthy nature, but Rhys does push himself away from him to lead the way.

Jack follows after him with steps that seem to echo in Rhys’s ears, and he’s unsure as to _why_ he’s focusing on everything that the man is doing. Perhaps it’s to do with the obvious status, or perhaps it’s because he’s _waiting_ for something to happen.

Mouthy people tend to either have nothing to show for themselves, or thousands of secrets they bury under the mountainous pile of lies they have built up. He opens the door to 'Rhys's bedroom’, as everyone has now dubbed it, and turns to face Jack who is closing the door behind them both.

Purple and dark blue filter into the dark room and Jack’s not even bothering to flick the lights on as he grabs Rhys’s hips and nudges him back to the bed. Impatience shows in the way he pushes at Rhys, and he’s only stopped when they both go tumbling onto the bed into an uncomfortable pile.

His hands are _large,_ Rhys finally acknowledges as they rub up and down his sides, whistling at the way the leather clings to him and Jack is snickering. “What a nice, shiny thing.” He compliments, and Rhys decides to accept it as is. Jack’s hands are rubbing along his legs, moving up to shove the small bit of the dress up so that he can spread his legs wide, and Rhys sighs at the gentle strokes on his inner thighs.

“Wait, let me-“ he moves to sit up, but Jack presses him down and Rhys exhales in surprise. “My arm—?” he looks over to his prosthetic, and Jack follows the movement of his eyes with ease despite the darkness of the room, and he tsks and shakes his head. “Keep it,” Jack says, and Rhys jolts when the man leans in close to him.

They don’t kiss, and Jack stares at him intently while his breath mingles with Rhys’s. “We’re gonna make this quick and rough, kid,” he pauses, waits and watches him, and he stays silent, “and then, that’s that.” He backs away, splays his hands over Rhys’s chest, over the triangle of revealed flesh, and he stares up into mismatched eyes.

“You gonna take the mask off?” Rhys asks, bold, and Jack laughs loud and easy. “If you aren’t gonna take your arm off, then my mask stays,” and he replies easily, hands pressing down on his shoulders, stroking down his sides, and then lifting his legs up again.

He seems content to explore, to enjoy Rhys’s bed like some sort of treasure, and he lets Jack do what he wishes.

Rhys will selfishly admit; it’s nice to be worshipped, especially by a man fuelled by passionate brutality.

* * *

His dress is never taken off throughout the entire ordeal, and his arm stays on – just like the man’s mask. Teeth sink into the side of his neck, over present bruises that are going to get worse the next day, and something rumbles in the man’s chest. Rhys has never fucked someone with fingers as thick as Jack’s, and he wants to joke about how big they are.

Really, Rhys does. He never gets the opportunity to through the whole thing; he’s used and abused in the _best_ ways, and Jack watches him with intent eyes that almost _glow_ in the dark of the room, in the dark of the night as neon colours filter in from outside.

He plays his part of the play for Jack, and he delivers – more than necessarily – for his own part as he slides the condom on to fuck Rhys.

Jack watches his face the entire time. In a way, it’s unnerving and in another, oddly flattering in… an unnerving way. Rhys has _no clue_ why Jack watches him; why he watches and waits and waits and watches, but he does, and he has to close his eyes to avoid Jack’s.

When they’re done with their business and Jack is pulling out, removing the condom, and then throwing it away in the trash, Rhys sits up and winces at how _sore_ he **really** feels now. He’s definitely going to need to clean his dress, and he breathes heavily as he presses against the headboard and groans.

“I’m comin’ back.” Jack says, voice abnormally soft despite all his bravado earlier, and Rhys furrows his brow, “but prob’ly not in the way you’d expect.”

“Is that a _threat?”_ he hisses out, body tense at the words and ready to bolt if need be, but Jack shakes his head and frowns.

“What? Hell no, why would I want to threaten a good screw? Nono, think of it like… a sad promise. Blekh. _Sad._ I sure as hell ain’t a _sad, sad man.”_ His nose scrunches up in disgust and anger at himself, at the word, and Rhys is… Well. Confused is one of many ways to describe what he’s feeling right now. “But no, you’ll see me again soon. That’s a promise, cupcake.”

With that, Jack gets up, grabs something from his discarded jacket, and drops it on Rhys’s lap before he’s gone. The already muted music is dying down a floor beneath him, and he looks down to see a very generous sitting on the leather of his dress, away from his own cum.

It’s time for him to go home, and Rhys decides to keep the tip hidden from Moxxi. He’s sure she won’t mind.

* * *

“How was he?” Moxxi asks him when he passes by and sits at the bar instead of going straight home, like he should, always, and Rhys crosses his arms again and rests his head in the little rest he made for himself. “Good? Bad? You need Brick to go after our masked John here?”

Rhys shakes his head and shifts, wincing ever so slightly at the ache that follows, and Moxxi gives him an actual sympathetic pat on the head. “Nah, he was fine. Lil’ rough, but I liked it.” Moxxi’s looking at him still, and he hums and looks up at her with his mouth against his arm. “Somethin’ the matter?”

“You have an _awful_ bruise on your neck, sugar.” She points at her own neck, and Rhys sits up, pats at the wrong side before the correct one, and he hisses when he feels the bruise that’s forming there. “And I am _quite sure_ I did not see that earlier.”

He prods at it and frowns, wondering why he never noticed it before, and he prods and prods and winces through the pain. “I don’t… John did have sharp teeth?” he tries to reason, and Moxxi purses her lips at his explanation and Rhys smiles sheepishly. “Seriously, Mox, I have _no clue_ where this came from.”

“Mama’s always gotta take care of you.” She says with a sigh, and Rhys shakes his head at her. “You wake up tomorrow and call me, tell me if it hurts too much, because that _really_ does not look healthy honey.”

He shrugs at her, trying to fight back against the urge to smile at her and Rhys slides off of the stool and waves. “I’m going now, Mox,” he says softly, and she hums. “Let Brick take you home.” Moxxi replies, and Rhys nods at her as he heads out.

The large man is at the door still, somehow looking as energetic since the morning Rhys saw him, and Brick’s giving him a big grin before he’s following after him silently.

* * *

It’s almost one in the morning when Rhys gets him, and he stares out the window of his room for a bit before he actually changes into his pajamas to sleep. Rent is as bad as ever, and his body screams in protest every time he moves. He buries his face into his pillow, his entire body going completely lax, and Rhys groans into the pillow.

His cut of the ten grand and with the tip he got, he should be able to live a bit easy for… a good few weeks. Rhys rolls over, away from the numerous letters and important mail on his bedside drawer, and he breathes in and out deeply.

Despite the lateness of the day and the fact that his body _physically_ demands sleep, he can’t seem to make himself fall asleep. He stares at the wall and hums, contemplative, and Jack’s words eventually come back to mind.

 _‘I’m coming back. Probably not in the way you expect.’_ He spins the words around and around in his head and Rhys frowns. Something under his skin crawls and Rhys shudders, all exhaustion gone as his mind goes into overdrive. _‘Is he—he is threatening me, right? What the hell does he mean by a sad promise?’_

But he doesn’t know if Jack is coming back tomorrow, or the day after, or at all, and Rhys groans and buries his face in the pillow as he tries to squash the frustrated voice screaming in the back of his head. Whatever; Jack’s probably one of those guys that gets off on terrifying people for no damn reason.

It isn’t the first time Rhys has met someone like that, and it probably will not be the last given how the world works.

Rhys lies awake for a good hour and a half before sleep finally claims him, and he groans as enters a restless dream.

* * *

He wakes up to his neck feeling absolutely fine and there being nothing more than the slightest of bruises where the horrible feeling bite was. When he thinks about it, he didn’t even go into the bathroom to check what the bite looked like. He also _did not_ brush his teeth before falling asleep, so his mouth tastes extra awful this morning; which is wonderful because now he has to get ready in a hurry because he slept past his alarm.

Nearly dropping his phone, Rhys sends Moxxi a quick text that he may be late, and she responds – ten minutes later – that his first client as it two in the afternoon.

Ah.

So today is going to be a relaxing day. _Good._ He needs it.

* * *

For a good while, Rhys doesn’t think about Jack or what he said. He has _work_ to do, and the job is harder than people think. Even if his hole is sore and his knees are far too bruised for how long he has been doing this, work is work and Rhys has bills to pay and his own mouth to feed.

At least today’s appointments are pretty spaced out. He goes to his room on the first floor of the strip bar, sees Yvette in her chair with her head tilted back and her eyes closed, and Rhys unceremoniously falls down on her lap.

With an oof, his beautiful companion opens her eyes and she shoots him an exasperated glance, even though her arms wrap around Rhys and hold him close. “Haven’t you ever heard of being considerate?” Yvette chastises playfully, and he snickers and he kisses her cheek in response. “Not letting me enjoy my nap.” She tsks and presses a kiss to his temple, her warmth palpable and welcome. “You okay? Didn’t see you at all yesterday.”

“Busy day.” He responds, and shifts so that he’s sitting up proper on her lap. With his legs on either side of her, Rhys drapes his arms over her shoulders and presses his nose against Yvette’s. “I’m preeeetty sure every appointment you had was on the same time as, well, all of mine, sooo…”

Her hands are soft and gentle on his legs, and she sneaks her hands under his dress to stroke over soft, soft skin. Rhys cups her face and kisses the corner of her lips, and Yvette rests her hands on his hips and rubs gentle circles there. “Anythin’ noteworthy yesterday?” she asks, her voice soft and her breath hot against his face, and Rhys nods.

“Had a rich one,” he admits, “paid a _shit ton,_ you have **no clue.** Seemed like an ass, though,” Rhys runs his flesh fingers through her hair before he rests it on her cheek again, a grin on his face while Yvette looks at him with one fine, arched brow. “But,” Rhys lets himself frown, and the expression on her face immediately becomes stern, “he told me that he’s going to see me again—but… I don’t think he means in the bar.”

At that, Yvette swallows and straightens her back up. She looks up at Rhys, stares up into his eyes and he slumps his shoulders. There’s a few minutes of tense silence that hangs over them, worry and stress stabbing through the quiet anxiety in the air.

“Did you tell Moxxi?” Yvette asks softly, quietly, and, to his shame and utter embarrassment, Rhys shakes his head no. “Why?”

“I didn’t think it was that important.”

“Rhys, he could’ve been _threatening_ you-“

“I just—I don’t know! It just didn’t seem like something to worry about, and I really, really don’t wanna tell Mox.”

There’s a conflict of emotions on Yvette’s face and she looks away from Rhys, her thumbs still rubbing circles on his hips as she thinks. It takes three agonizing minutes before Yvette sighs and looks back to Rhys, eyes looking down before she’s gazing up at him through her eyelashes. “I won’t tell her either, but if he _does_ come back and _does_ threaten you or **hurt** you…”

“I’ll tell Mox and Brick and they’ll beat him up to an inch of his life.” Rhys sings, “seriously, ‘vette, s’okay. Just kiss me for a bit, okay?”

Her gaze softens at that. “You know I can’t say no to kissing you.”

Rhys grins.

* * *

Moxxi lets him leave early when no one else schedules anything with him – or, rather, when she doesn’t let _anyone_ schedule anything with him. He sees it in the way she smiles sweetly at some of the people that look at his limping form far too closely, and Roland is the one that has to escort him back today. He leaves the bar to Maya, and Rhys watches her with wide, adoring eyes as she grabs an asshole by the collar and threatens them.

The small, giddy part of him that is still a child at heart says _I want to be just like her_ and Rhys has to tear his gaze away so that Roland can take him home properly. He doesn’t bother talking to him like he does with Brick because… Roland’s bad at talking. Period. There are only three people he can talk to, easily, without getting awkward and all stuttery, so Rhys decides to spare him and not talk to him.

He can practically feel the relief flowing out of him in waves when Rhys only says ‘hello,’ ‘please take me home,’ and ‘thank you’. Good lord, Roland is _so bad_ at people that Rhys almost wonders how Lilith dated him for a while, before he remembers that she’s dating Mordecai again and pretty damn happy about it.

… not that Roland seems all that broken up over it whenever he’s near Brick. What an odd four, but Rhys doesn’t really care. Their relationships, their life, etcetera, etcetera.

He’s just happy to be home early, and grateful that Moxxi is as kind and as merciful as she is—though it may be because he let her fuck him hard. Whatever. He breathes out a big sigh of relief as he forces himself out of his jeans and then promptly falls on his bed in only his briefs.

The bed is practically a sweet embrace, and Rhys turns over onto his stomach and buries his face into his pillow. His eyes flutter, and the urge to sleep is a tempting invitation as any—

“Don’t sleep _now,_ I just got here.” A familiar voice says, and everything that follows is a flurry and mess of yelling and kicking. Rhys sits up when he hears Jack in his house and tries to grab at something, tries to throw it at him and force him out of his flat, out of his home, and he’s throwing _as much shit at him that he can._ He’s yelling, anger clear in his voice and his eyes are wide, and he’s not on his bed anymore as he rushes off to go and grab something to _slam_ into Jack’s head—

A strong, large hand grabs his elbow and yanks him back, and Rhys stares up into Jack’s eyes. “ _Let go of me!”_ Rhys nearly screams, cursing himself for the fact that his right arm is the one in the hold, and he glares at Jack and bares his teeth. “Let me go and get the _hell_ out of my house—!”

“Can I at least explain myself, Rhysie?” Jack says, and it immediately dawns on him that his voice is an echo, hollow and far away and Rhys stiffens up at the realisation. He looks up at Jack, takes in the fact that he… he looks like he’s wet—his hair is sticking to his mask, to his hair, all flat and moist, and his clothes are drenched.

He looks outside to see if it rained and—no, no. It couldn’t have. It’s sunny out. He looks at the floor of his flat, takes in the fact that water isn’t dripping, and – wait. Is he… somewhat transparent? He looks up at Jack with a bewildered gaze. “W… what?”

“Took ya long enough! Which, really, about _time._ I don’t like bloody lookin’ like this—makes me look like I’m cursed to look this way though that ain’t the case.”

“… Okay, slow down. _What the hell?”_

Jack takes in a deep breath, sighs, and then looks away. “You… believe in the whole, ghosts and spirits bullshit?” No way. No- no, no, no way. He’s just tired and probably dreaming this all up. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, and he tries to pinch himself in the side to wake up. When that doesn’t work, Rhys slaps himself on the leg a few times, then raises his hand up to give himself a good _smack_ on the face.

Jack grabs his hand before he can do that, and when he opens his eyes the man is looking at him like he’s insane. “Honey, cupcake, if ye’re tryin’ to figure out if you’re dreaming—surprise! Ya ain’t. Now will you _stop that?_ Pretty face like yours doesn’t deserve to be ruined.”

“You’re dead.” Rhys blurts out, and he ignores Jack’s sarcastic “good job detective” and he struggles until he’s finally let go. “I had—I had sex with a ghost?” At that, Jack scratches his cheek – his _masked_ cheek – and looks away. “The mask--?”

“Horribly deformed before I was drowned.” Jack says quietly, his voice seething with rage and oozing with something that Rhys can’t recognise. He moves away from Jack and falls on his bed instead, eyes staring up at the man. “But—yep. I’m dead—and, well, m’not really a _ghost_ per say…”

“Then the hell are you?” Rhys demands, his voice growing higher in octave, and he’s trembling slightly on the bed. “I mean—it’s not _every day_ that someone tells you that all those stories about ghosts and shit are **true** you know!” he ends up yelling near the end, and Jack just glares at him.

He flicks his hand at Rhys, a frown on his face. “Let’s say, I’m a – a spirit or something? Listen, kid, I don’t even _know_ myself. They’re above ghosts, or something? I’ve only been dead for…” he exhales, as though ashamed to admit it, “seven years.”

Rhys groans and presses his hands against his face, lies down on the bed and just… stays there. “Why are you _here_ then?” The spirit – or so he thinks he’s a spirit, maybe he’s just dreaming this all up still – sits next to him, and the bed barely dips. When Rhys removes his hands, he notes that Jack _still_ looks drenched. When he surreptitiously shimmies a bit closer, he realises that he can faintly smell the sea on the man—it’s a very weak smell, almost as though it’s faded away with time, and Rhys shivers.

He doesn’t know anything about spirits. Aren’t they normally unable to touch humans? But then again there are some spirits that seem to directly affect people, right? But those are all stories, stories that Rhys has never read and probably won’t hold the answer to all of his questions.

Jack’s really quiet, and it gives Rhys time to think—which isn’t what he wants. He breathes in and out deeply, chest falling and rising far too heavily and deeply with each frantic thought that comes and goes. His heart slams against his chest, rattling it and Rhys is sure he won’t be even able to _hear_ Jack through the pounding of his heart.

This isn’t really happening, is it? He shakes his head and presses his palms against his eyes, rubs and rubs and only stops when nothing seems to happen, and he slumps. “Damn it.” He says—rather, hisses through his teeth, and Jack looks his way finally.

“You want an honest answer, kiddo?” Jack asks, and Rhys nods. “Just wanted some _company,_ damn it. You try bein’ dead for seven years with _no damn clue_ on what to do—“

“So you’re—you’re lonely, so you went to a _prostitute?”_

“You’re making me sound _paaathetic_ here kiddo!” Jack groans. “I’m not _lonely,_ I just wanted someone to fuck, s’all. And it’s not like you can really complain, I gave ya money!”

Rhys pales. “Where did you-“

“I was rich ‘fore I died; guess great god above let me keep that even though I’m _dead._ Must be punishment or something for the time I accidentally stepped on my cat’s tail.” For some reason, Rhys can’t help but snort at that. He’s pressing his hand to his mouth, trying to calm the giggles that slip out, but it’s failing given the way Jack looks at him with raised eyebrows. “What?”

Hysterical laughter bubbles in his chest, and Rhys manages to shove it away by pressing down on his nose and mouth so hard that he can’t actually _breathe._ When Jack _finally_ notices what’s happening, he’s grabbing at his wrists and forcing them off of his face and Rhys lets out a very short bark of laughter. “Sorry- sorry just… _dead!_ And a cat! You have a—a spirit just paid me—oh my _god.”_

“A bit much to take in, princess?” Jack asks, and Rhys looks at him blankly. “Right, dumb question.”

“… So… so why are you— _here_ then?” Rhys repeats, this time with emphasis so that the asshole answers him properly because apparently just asking him--  _just_ asking him alone isn't enough. This isn't-- he shakes his head and slaps his cheeks, and Jack stares at him blankly as he does this, before Rhys looks him in the eyes and  _waits._

Jack frowns and looks away. “I got—I got attached to ya, okay? Not _emotionally_ or anything, but I think I’m—how the hell am I gonna explain this shit to you!?”

He breathes in and out, staring up at Jack still, and he exhales. “You want me sexually.” Jack seems fine with that answer, because he’s looking at Rhys with an even gaze. “And—and are you still going to pay me for it?” Jack snorts in disbelief, eyes wide, and Rhys shakes his head. “Listen just—if you want me to keep letting you fuck me-“

“Language.” Jack says absentmindedly, and Rhys hits his back. He’s met with a wet smack, and his skin goes a bit green.

“I’m not gonna mess with this sort of shit. I don’t have _any_ control over this,” Rhys says shakily, his body finally starting to ever so slowly to calm down. “And sex is my job. I’ll do it, just as long as you pay me.” _‘I need your money, anyway.’_

There’s silence from the spirit for a bit, but he looks back to Rhys with twitching lips and wide eyes. He stares into Jack’s eyes for a while, takes in how they aren’t as vibrant as yesterday—they’re dull and hollow, looking as though they’re faded colour on paper, and Rhys wonders if that has anything to do with death. Despite the dullness of his irises, his eye itself is a glassy white that seems to almost glow. His own eyes feel weirdly glossy, and he closes one eye shut when a tear spills out. “My bad,” Jack says when he takes notice of the tear, and Rhys opens his bleary eye again.

He wipes at it while Jack deliberates, and he jolts at the sigh that escapes the spirit. “Deal, kiddo.” Jack says, and Rhys exhales. “I’ll be outta your hair now, and I’ll see ya on the nights you’re free.”

“Not tonight?”

“ _Someone’s_ eager.”

“That’s not—!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist. Nah; I’m sure if I came here again tonight, you’d have a damn heart attack. I’ll see you… I’uhno, when you come home early again, or whatever.” Jack shrugs at that, and before Rhys can say anything else Jack – quite literally – fades away from existence and he’s left staring at an empty spot.

It’s not even _wet_ where Jack once sat, and Rhys crawls under his blanket and wills himself to fall asleep and forget about this for a little while.

His dreams are plagued with Jack and the ocean, and Rhys wakes up well-rested four hour later.

* * *

It takes Jack a week and three days to come back, and Rhys doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He goes back to his flat, notices the lights are already on, and Jack is in his bedroom, waiting for him. He looks like he did the first time Rhys saw him – with pretty jacket and smug lines – and he gravitates to him and falls onto his lap.

He’s not wearing anything impressive—not like in the club, where he has a wide range of outfits to choose from—but Jack doesn’t seem to mind as he grabs at Rhys’s hips and buries his face into his neck. For whatever reason, Rhys smells ash and the ocean on Jack, and he forgets about the smells quickly when he feels teeth and tongue against his neck.

A soft sigh escapes him as Jack sucks on bruises already forming, teeth dragging over the side of his neck and his hands grabbing his ass tightly through his trousers, and Rhys shudders. “Perfect,” Jack hisses for whatever reason, and Rhys doesn’t think about it long and he tilts his head to the side so that he can give Jack more area to bite and play with.

It’s a slow worship of him again, Jack taking his time to undress him and his mouth attaches to whatever skin is left exposed. He drags bitten nails down Rhys’s back, and he’s manoeuvring him around so that he’s lying on the bed and removing his trousers is easier that way.

“So _perfect,_ ” Jack sighs into his skin, and Rhys can’t help but flush at the praise. He shivers and huffs, and Jack’s – a spirit. He’s a _spirit,_ his mind reminds himself, and he doesn’t listen to it and indulges himself in the kisses and bites that Jack leaves along his skin. Sharp teeth dig into him and mark him, almost to the point of bleeding, and Rhys feels the ache all the way to his bones as Jack bites and scratches him. He’s naked beneath the spirit, but Jack won’t strip himself. He mouths at his inner thigh, bites at the soft skin on the inside, and Rhys doesn’t want to really think about it.

Jack bites him hard enough that Rhys worries he’ll bleed, and the bitten area is licked and laved and sucked on, mark left on him like paint on a canvas. Jack growls something against his skin, and Rhys can’t hear it, but he supposes it doesn’t matter when he’s crawling up of his body and kissing him like he has something to prove. Teeth clack against each other before Rhys gives way, and everything else is a blur of rough and quick movements.

His body _hurts_ after it all, and he’s feeling empty and full, nothing on his thighs and in him, and Rhys feels cheated for some reason. He stares at the spirit that strokes his cheeks, takes in Jack’s appearance and stares into his eyes that flicker from death and life constantly, and the glassiness makes his own eye glisten.

He closes his eyes as to avoid looking at Jack, and he can feel the smile that he’s given. “Here’s your pay, sweetheart.” Jack says, lust and satisfaction slipping from his tongue as well as his words, and Rhys hums and rolls his head to the side.

When Jack has left, Rhys sits up and puts the money away somewhere safe. There are bruises all over his hips and legs, bruises that have gotten worse and some that are just beginning to smart, and Rhys looks himself over in his mirror before he goes back to bed.

Moxxi notices when he limps in the next day and she’s mostly amused at Rhys having difficulties sitting at the stool more than anything else. He winces, and she shows him what he has to do for the day, and Rhys is somewhat relieved to see that he’s going to be coming home late. Another night like that and Rhys thinks he’s going to be exhausted beyond his body’s capabilities. He makes a face when he sees Vasquez’s alias there, scheduled at least a month in advance, but when Moxxi tells him the price he’s paying Rhys supposes he can relent again this time

He goes to his room, catches Yvette prettying herself up for her own clients, and Rhys can’t help but interrupt her for a kiss. She’s exasperated at him, but she’s helping him choose his outfit of the day soon enough and applying his makeup for him; Yvette’s hands are careful and steady, whereas Rhys’s hands are still shaky and anxious.

“Take care today.” Yvette says before she has to leave for her own work, and Rhys looks at himself in the vanity mirror, takes in how he looks like a star, and looks away. He stands up and plasters a smile onto his face, confidence in his steps as he makes his way out to greet his first client when Rhys hears footfalls near the door.

* * *

“Sooo, I take it being a prostitute ain’t that great.” Jack says when he sees Rhys again [two weeks later], and he’s sitting on the sofa instead of on the bed this time, and he rolls his eyes at the way the spirit lounges. “You look like shit, kitten.”

“Lots of work.” Rhys says, far too tired to make conversation yet he… “You ever heard me sing? The first time Yvette heard it, she was _blown away.”_ he says, and Jack looks at him with an arched eyebrow, and Rhys quickly speaks up before the asshole can say anything. “She said my voice was _amazing._ Then she asked me what I’m doing there.”

Jack blinks. “Why’re ya tellin’ me this?”

Rhys shrugs. “I’m also Mr. Lonely-“ he’s interrupted by Jack yelling _“I told you I ain’t lonely!”_ but Rhys ignores his outburst and instead makes his way over to the kitchen. “—and I don’t— _I can’t_ tell Yvette about it, okay? I’ve given her literally _nothing_ and the moment I tell her I’m dissatisfied, she’ll be looking for work for me until she passes out.”

“So, you hate it there?” Jack asks, more out of forced obligation than anything else, and Rhys frowns at the innocent sink that did him no harm. “So why not just… leave and find a real job?”

He nearly screams in frustration. “You think I can find a job _here? Something that actually—_ I haven’t upgraded my damn eye in _years,_ and I’m _really freaking lucky it’s not giving me migraines every day!_ I can barely even find— _”_

He stops himself and makes his way back to Jack, who’s staring at him with a blank gaze and an emptier expression. There’s nothing more to be said, and Rhys has already decided he’s not hungry. He crawls onto Jack’s lap, and there’s a gleam in those mismatched eyes that Rhys recognises all too well. Leaning close, Rhys brushes his lips against Jack’s chin, against the clasp of his mask that hides his deformity, and he kisses his way down his throat.

“Let me ride you, handsome,” Rhys’s voice is a throaty purr, his ‘business voice’ as Lilith calls it, and Jack gasps as he rolls their hips against each other, “c’mon, let’s have fun.”

Thick hands cup his ass and press him close, and Rhys helps with getting rid of his own trousers and sliding his boxers down.

This is easy. This is recognisable. This is _fine._

* * *

Sleeping with Vasquez is more of a chore than he remembers it being. He bites into the pillow to hide all the scathing he has to say, to hold back the bile that rises when he feels his slimy fingers on his legs and back. That man treats Rhys the worst, and having him in the middle of the day is going to ruin the rest of his clients for him.

He slaps him with his prosthetic – with Vasquez, he made it a _rule_ that he’ll keep it on no matter what – when the asshole tries to press his hands against Rhys’s throat, and he smiles at him sweetly to make him think he’s just acting.

Whatever he’s acting as, Rhys doesn’t know, but he knows it’s good enough for Vasquez. He presses his hand against his face and splays his fingers when Vasquez tries to kiss him, keeps him pushed far away, and Rhys hates that the man _gets off on it._

Maybe he just likes pissing Rhys off.

Whatever it is, it makes Rhys angry and pissed off, and he very nearly scrubs himself raw and clean when he goes to clean himself up for the next client.

Today’s going to be awful.

* * *

“You’re actually _here_ tonight.” Rhys admits with surprise when he catches Jack waiting outside the door to the apartment, and he’s even more surprised when the spirit shoves a packet of cigarettes in his hands. It’s the more expensive brand; the one that Rhys always wants, but buying them will be an extreme waste of money that he cannot afford and, well, needs before leisure [as much as he hates to admit it].

Looking at Jack, he stays quiet as he takes one out, puts the packet in his pocket and drags his lighter out to start smoking. It takes a few clicks before he’s able to smoke, and the relief that Rhys feels at being about to suck and inhale a bit of the smoke in. He exhales it out eventually, and he can feel the stress slowly going away as he stands next to Jack.

“Do you _actually_ walk ‘ere yourself? Like, shit kiddo, this place is even giving _me_ the creeps.” Jack says, though there’s something _off_ in his voice. Rhys shrugs, exhales another puff of smoke, before he looks over to Jack and shakes his head. “Someone drop ya off here?”

“Moxxi has her bouncers generally take me back home.” He admits. “I like it more when Maya brings me back, because she can kick serious _ass,_ but no. I don’t come down here alone; Moxxi thinks it’s too dangerous.”

Jack looks at him before he falls into a squat, and Rhys feels like he’s from a movie or something. Maybe they’re actually doing a photoshoot right now and they don’t know it—

The idea makes his heart race in excitement, however improbable it is, and Jack looks up at him. “You look like ya needed that.” Jack says, and it takes Rhys some time to realise he means the cigarettes. He shrugs, and Jack frowns. “Listen, kiddo, as much as I _adore_ your riveting company, ya wanna tell me what shoved a stick so far up your ass I can see it sticking out of your mouth?”

“… What the hell, Jack?” Rhys asks, thanking god above that he wasn’t smoking when Jack said that, and he shakes his head and raises his free hand up to silence Jack. “I have a client— _Vasquez._ He goes under the name ‘Kenny’ so people don’t recognise him or whatever, but I _hate_ him. I used to work with that asshole years ago, and I think he just gets off on the superiority or whatever.”

Jack’s quiet after that, and something about the silence makes his skin crawl. He tries not to think about it, and instead focuses on his smoke instead of the topic at hand. “You really, really hate him?” Jack asks, sounding more curious than anything, and Rhys exhales.

“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ when he answers. “Only reason I let him have sex with me the first time is because _heeee_ had a nice paycheck, and I really needed the money.”

“You’re in shit debt, kid.”

“The uni I went to wasn’t cheap.” Rhys says, and admits nothing more, and Jack doesn’t seem interested in what other debts he has. “Hey, how’d you even get me these cigarette?

“The same way _I had your ass for a night, sweetheart._ I’m a _spirit,_ not a damn ghost, remember? There’s a freakin' difference.” Before Rhys can really even ask, Jack continues speaking. “You wanna go back in yet, pumpkin? M’freezing my ass off in here.”

Snorting, Rhys woefully stamps out his cigar. “You’re dead. You can’t feel cold.” He says bluntly, and Jack glares at him and Rhys shrugs. “Well, what do I know about being dead?”

“ _Exactly._ Now get the _hell in **before** I slap you.”_

* * *

One of the things he’s dreading is another ‘night’ with Vasquez. “You have him again in a week, sugar,” Moxxi says to him, “and I know you hate him, but he’s _really_ throwing money at you and I don’t know if you wanna say no to that.”

 _‘No,’_ Rhys begrudgingly admits, ‘ _no I really don’t.’_

He shoves the dread away so that he can work properly, and he doesn’t see Yvette at all the entire day. He does bump into Melanie and then Amed, both of whom help lift his spirits slightly. He doesn’t run into those two often enough – conflicting schedules and them having to do more than just _sleep_ with people, and Rhys doesn’t dwell on the tightness of his chest for long.

It’s an easier day today. Still a bit packed, but he’s still able to rest up for more than half an hour at most. He exhales through his nose, Jack’s expensive cigarettes sitting on his vanity, and Rhys can’t help but slightly smile.

He has enough time for one smoke, or two if he rushes through it, so he reaches out and decides to indulge himself once the windows are open. Soon enough, it’s back to work with him and Rhys is quite fine with that, frankly.

It’s really breezy and cold outside, and Rhys is more than happy to close the windows and get to it.

The days pass by agonizingly slowly as he keeps thinking of how he has to sleep with Vasquez. The clock ticks by, and Rhys counts as every second turns into a minute and every minute turns into an hour.

It’s obsessive, but so is Vasquez and Rhys doesn’t want to deal with him more than he needs to. So when the time for Vasquez’s appointment arrives, the man is unpredictably missing. He goes to Moxxi after an hour of looking at his phone, and she’s busy trying to call someone up.

When he mouths at her, she answers with a simple “Vasquez,” and then goes back to trying to dial him. “I can’t _get_ him to answer. Well, sugar, I guess you’ve been saved from the clutches of slimeball.” His eyes are wide and glowing, and Moxxi rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get _too_ excited honey. That was a lot of missed money—“

“But no sleazebag!” Rhys cheers, and Moxxi’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’m going to go and sit and enjoy my nice ass dress that Assquez wouldn’t have appreciated in his entire damn life!”

Moxxi just waves at him when Rhys goes back to lounge around and be lazy, and today ends up being _better_ than the days prior to it just on the basis that he didn’t have to _sleep_ with Vasquez after all.

Small little gifts and miracles.

* * *

“What were you before ya went to Moxx’s?” Jack asks him, settling up on his elbows to stare down at Rhys, who’s currently trying to sleep. “Because, really kid, the university you went to… _preeeetty_ promising. The hell happened?”

Rhys groans and tries to bury his face in his pillow, his hair fanning around him, but he can still feel Jack’s stare on him and he rolls over onto his back. “I worked at Hyperion for a bit; only a bit, but they fired me after some useless stuff went down.” Rhys closes his eyes, inhales deeply through his nose and then exhales through his mouth. “Va- my other best friend told me that I could totally work at where he’s working.”

“Buuuuut… there’s a but, isn’t there? There’s always a but.”

“Let me _get there_ you asshole. Anyway; I did wanna work with him, I did! But, he’s halfway ‘cross the country and I can’t afford the travel fees and I’d feel… _bad_ living with him and not being able to pay rent.”

Jack shrugs at that, and he finally rolls around onto his back so he’s in a much more comfortable position. “Soooo… why are you willingly telling me this shit, Rhysie?”

Something in Rhys seizes up for a bit, and he looks around. He avoids looking at Jack, trying to find—something to distract himself. “Well, you’re… dead. I mean,you— you’re probably gonna disappear off the face of the Earth, because, you-- you can't stay here forever,” he admits eventually with a shaky voice and even shakier words, but Jack doesn’t question him if he even notices, “aaaand everything I have to say is just gonna… go with you.”

Jack’s staring at him throughout his entire admission with a look of pure and utter disbelief, and Rhys just shrugs at his surprise. “It’s true though, right? I mean, I only know this shit from… m-media, but still.”

Frowning, Jack looks up at the ceiling and glares at the offensive, boring pattern. He looks at Jack for a bit, waits for him to say something, and Rhys shrugs and turns over onto his side. “The one thing I hate to say, kiddo,” Jack says through hissed teeth, “is that you’re right. I _am_ gonna disappear someday.”

His words ring hollow, and Rhys decides that he doesn’t want to know what that means. He closes his eyes and decides to drift away, and Jack invades his dreams once more.

* * *

He floats along the days again, and Jack appears more frequently as he does. There’s something different in the way he holds Rhys now, and he can’t really pinpoint what it is. Jack’s an enigma—which, really, makes sense. Jack is dead. Jack is _dead._ He was disfigured and then drowned, and whoever that let him live [God, Jack says, and Rhys doesn’t know what the hell he means by that really] decided to give him a mask and make him a spirit.

Because there’s a distinct difference between being a spirit and being a ghost and Rhys can never get Jack to tell him. It’s not like it _matters,_ really; Rhys is always curious, always nosy one could say, and that’s what got him far in life. It’s also what landed him into this mess of debts in the first place, and Rhys rubs at his eyes and tries not to think about it.

Jack’s in his room, and he’s looking at Rhys curiously. “Say, Rhysie,” Jack begins, “what _is_ your dream job, huh? Like, what’s the _thing_ you always wanna do—shit, feels like I’m asking a nine year old or something.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Rhys says sarcastically, and he’s making his way in front of Jack. He places his hands on his own hips, and he cocks his hip to the side. “I wanted to sing.” Rhys admits quietly, and Jack looks at him with wide eyes. “I know, I know—my degree’s different, worked in a different place… I had two passions, and I chose the one that fucked me over.”

“Lan- nevermind.” Jack raises his hands up when Rhys glares at him, and he spreads his legs and leans back. “You still wanna sing someday, kiddo? Still wanna be a big star and have everyone adore you?” Jack’s voice is _horribly_ patronizing as he speaks, and Rhys tenses up and bares his teeth in response. “Hey, no need to get all angry! I’m just _askin’—“_

“You’re being a prick.” He answers bluntly, and Jack looks at him with an unamused look. “And _that_ doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m going to ride you, and you’re going to pay me for it.” He falls onto Jack’s lap and grabs at his face, and the surprise that splashes across his face is more than worth it to Rhys. “So, _stop talking.”_

It’s Jack’s turn to bare his teeth, and Rhys has to keep from staring at how _sharp_ they are. He remembers the bruise Jack gave him on their first night, thinks back to it with his chest tightening and his neck hurting again, and he looks up at mismatched eyes with his own.

He’s being stared at like Jack has something to prove, and Rhys leans forward and bites at his lower lip and pulls before he’s backing away. Jack growls then, something deep and throaty that echoes in Rhys’s head, and he’s being pulled down with him onto his bed.

Jack is merciless with him that night, and Rhys doesn’t think about what it means.

* * *

“You have an admirer, honey.” Moxxi tells him two days later, and she’s handing him a letter. Her lips are curled down into an ugly frown, and her brows are furrowing as she stares at Rhys. When he reads over the letter himself, he pales for a while before anger strikes him full-force, and he’s shaking with the force of it.

Moxxi reaches out to hold him, and she brings him in close and presses his head against her breasts. It’s not a problem, honestly, and even though something in his stomach tightens with each ticking second he still ends up laughing and pushing himself away. “Okay, okay, you did _not_ need to do that.”

She’s laughing with him then, strained and wavering near the end, and Moxxi shakes her head. “I feel like I did, sugar. You were looking like a zit about to pop.”

“That’s gross, Mox.”

“And it’s also the _truth._ Now, go make sure to take care of yourself—and do you want me to call the police on the letter?”

Rhys shakes his head. “No, no, I know who sent it. I’ll… talk to him myself, don’t worry.” She looks at him, tries to see if he’s trying to deflect or whatever, and Rhys smiles sheepishly at her and that seems to please Moxxi. She presses a kiss to his cheek and goes to work, and Rhys grabs at a tissue and does his best to wipe the kiss mark off of his cheek.

… Actually, he wonders if more people will be interested if he has a kiss mark? Maybe it’ll be like, a _style_ or something. Maybe some people will find that aesthetically pleasing.

He distracts himself with work, even as the anger still boils in his blood and pops at his skin, and he manages to make it through the day with a bit more ease as Rhys’s clients today are the dickiest and douchiest they’ve ever been in a **_looooong_** while.

* * *

“What the hell!” Rhys yells out into his apartment, and no one responds to him. “Jack! Where the _hell_ are you!? What the fuck was that – _you think you can find **me** a job?! _ Seriously where are you?!” He continues to yell while he slams the door behind him and he’s fumbling to lock it. He moves around his apartment, looking for the spirit _asshole_ that decided to send him a letter— _a god damn handwritten letter_ telling Rhys that—

He wants to slap Jack. He doesn’t care if he’s dead and it’s pretty much ineffective; Jack has _no right to think he can fix Rhys’s life better than he can._ He’s still yelling, yelling for Jack to come and answer him, and Rhys sinks down onto to the floor when he realises that he has no clue where Jack is. Maybe he should have asked for a way to ‘summon him’ – you can do that, right? Summon things. Rhys presses his hands to his face and screams his anger into them.

Who the _hell_ is Jack to think he has the rights to figure Rhys’s life out for him? Who is he— _who is he to say that he can get Rhys a singing career?_

He’s dead, and he isn’t even paying off half the shit that’s keeping Rhys tied to his current job anyway. If he really wants to help that badly, why doesn’t he just _pay his debts off?_

_What an asshole._

* * *

Jack doesn’t come back for a long time, which means that Rhys’s days are melting together easily again. All the anger he has dissipates as the weeks pass by, and he’s gone back to thinking about how to spend the money he gets to keep from working. The fridge is somewhat stocked; not that much, but it should be enough for a few days. He needs to pay the water and electricity bill, and if he pays them tomorrow morning, _early_ morning, then he’ll be able to avoid any further complications with that. Then he’s going to have to send the money off to one of the many that he owes to, and Rhys sighs.

With his head busy with these thoughts, it’s easier to relax and be at ease. The stress of his life has also become his greatest anchors, and Rhys clenches his fists tightly at how his life has come to that point. He rolls over and curls into his bed, wishing that Yvette isn’t busy so that he can call her up and have her over for the night. If his room starts to smell like cinnamon and perfume again, then Rhys doesn’t mind. He misses Yvette’s smell, honestly, and he groans in frustration into his pillow. His eyes flutter shut, and he’s about to fall asleep, and even _that_ is somehow interrupted.

Something sharp drags itself across his cheek, leaving behind a very thin line that’s starting to bleed and Rhys yells out of surprise more than anything else. He scrambles awake, pushing himself up on his hands and he stares with wide eyes in the darkness of his room.

There’s no one there, but his cheek is bleeding.

Shakily, he reaches out to grab at his phone and text Moxxi that he really—really doesn’t want to come over tomorrow, but he stops short of grabbing it and instead gets up to go and put a band aid on his cheek.

When he wakes up tomorrow, it should hopefully just be a thin line on his face that he can cover up with make-up or… or whatever.

* * *

“Hey there, princess.” Jack coos to him, his arms crossed in front of him and his head tilted. He’s waiting in front of Rhys’s flat, and he does the first thing that comes to mind when he sees Jack.

He slaps him across the face with his prosthetic, and Jack’s head whips to the side at that. Apparently, Rhys is wrong—his anger _didn’t_ fade; Jack just wasn’t around to feel the wrath of it. “Where the _hell_ were you, and what _nerve_ did you have writing that letter and sending it to Moxxi?”

Jack’s not moving his head yet, and something crawls under Rhys’s skin like maggots. He swallows and backs away, and his mind starts racing with irrational thought after thought. It only worsens when Jack slowly looks back at him, blinking slowly and deliberately, and Rhys swallows and tries to puff his chest up to show he’s not scared.

Instead of saying anything, Jack motions at Rhys’s door and he’s unlocking it quickly enough. To his surprise, Jack drags his elbow and drags him in, and the door is slammed shut behind him as they make their way inside. Nothing has changed in his flat, and Rhys relaxes at that realisation. “So,” he begins, his voice wavering, “are you gonna answer me or not? That was a _dick move—“_

“Is this how you’re gonna pay back the person who _actually_ got you a legitimate singing gig?” Jack asks, his voice even and low, and Rhys’s eyes widen. “See, I was gonna _surprise_ you when I came back, and I was in a bit of a hurry and you were out at _seven in the morning. Like,_  seriously- you work at  _noo-_ ugh! Whatever. **Someone** was out early, so I left the note at Moxxi’s; you happy?”

Rhys frowns; it’s… true, he was out very early, but why didn’t Jack just—?  “Fine, _whatever._ You’re still a dick for it.” However… “You… you said something about a gig—? Do you mean—do you actually—“

“See, kiddo, I’m feeling _nice.”_ There’s something acidic in his voice, and it burns at his ears like fire and Rhys flinches. “And you should be so damn _grateful_ that I’m feeling nice right now.” he’s growling against, and this time it makes Rhys tense up. “You just slap me—and shit, that actually _hurt—_ I’m wearing a mask! The hell is wrong with you?!” 

Before Rhys can even get a chance to reply, Jack grabs at his wrists and holds him still. “Don’t care. Shut up. _Listen.”_ He closes his mouth. “ _Good boy._ Finally listening for once, huh? Now, see, all you gotta do is _record your voice._ Sing whatever—but don’t let it be a dumb as hell song, **got it?** ”

“I got it.”

“ _Good._ The person I got in contact with said that he’ll listen to your voice, and given that he’s _really_ far away he’s settling for a recording. I’ve got you _all_ the shit you need.”

Rhys’s throat goes dry and his breath hitches.

“All you gotta do is sing, and then decide if you wanna work for him or not. Sign a contract, get through all the legal shit or whatever. ‘course, this is just a simple gig—start out small and all, huh?”

He looks away from Jack’s eyes and looks down at his feet instead—he’s still wearing his shoes, and Jack is wearing socks. Rhys frowns at that, before he forces his mind into focus about what he’s told. Licking his lips, he swallows a few times so that the numerous lumps in his throat go away, and he looks back up at Jack. “Really? You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

“This isn’t gonna screw me over, is it?”

“Nah. All I wanna do is help. I’m a… nice spirit, let’s say. The ones that help and go above and beyond for you.” He narrows his eyes at Rhys before there’s a big grin on his face that wipes away all the stress on Jack’s face. “I’d never hurt ya.”

“I doubt that.” Rhys says, and he pushes Jack away. “Do you want to-“

“Nah. _Naw._ I gotta go now kiddo; I got places to _be,_ things to **do!** I got _so much work to do_ now, because—see, I gotta disappear soon, like I told you I would, so I gotta do this quick.”

He’s going to—“Wait. Jack, wait! Why now? Answer me--!”

Jack fingerguns his way, and he’s gone, and Rhys doesn’t get to learn a damn thing.

* * *

He chooses one of his favourite songs to sing, and Jack ends up being honest and true to his words. He gets Rhys a decent enough microphone, and a few other assorted things with a paper that’s giving him instructions on how to make his own little ‘soundproof little booth’. The butterflies in his stomach forces him to wait a good few days before Jack finally comes by and essentially forces him to sing, and Rhys decides to go with one of his favourites.

There’s a stony expression on Jack’s face the entire time that he listens to Rhys’s final recording, and he catches the twitches on his face because he’s been staring _really_ intently at Jack.

Rhys is singing for Jack in this particular moment, and his stomach does flips over and over _and over again_ because he doesn’t know what’s going on in the man’s head.

He can’t hear his voice anymore, the unbearable embarrassment still lingering in his chest and thick in the air like some sort of fetid smell, and Jack looks away once the recording is done. Rhys catches sight of Jack’s lips curling, and pulling back to reveal rows of perfect teeth, and he blinks once to see if it’s really as sharp as he thinks it is.

A hand reaches out to him and grabs at his chin, and he’s yanked up and Rhys raises his hand up to hit Jack.

There’s an indescribable glint in Jack’s eyes and a big, pleased cat’s grin on his face, and Rhys’s arm falters. “You sound absolutely _perfect,_ kiddo.” Jack says, voice dripping venomously, “I bet Vasquez misses ya.”

When Jack leaves to give the recording to whoever it is that he has found, Rhys is left with the unsettling realisation that he didn’t actually ask Jack who the man is. The discomfort only grows when he repeats Jack’s last sentence in his head, over and over again, and he has _no clue_ as to why Vasquez being mentioned irritates him.

Frowning, Rhys smacks himself with his flesh hand and decides that he should probably talk to Maya or Ellie about this. They always seem in control of their lives, and always know what to do. All he needs to do is ask Maya for her girlfriend’s number, explain himself, and Rhys is sure that maybe Ellie will help him with this if Maya herself cannot.

In the end, however, Rhys ends up not being able to ask for some sort of life advice from either of the two, and the anxiety that grows in him is present in the air that he breathes.

… … …

He’s making so many mistakes, isn’t he?

* * *

There’s a note plastered to his door, and Rhys recognises Jack’s handwriting near immediately. Ever so daintily, he plucks it off of the door and reads it over, and something warm spreads in his chest when he learns that… that _whoever_ Jack gave his recording to seemed to _love_ Rhys’s voice. He’s finally given details on the whole thing, and Rhys finally goes inside and checks to make sure that Jack isn’t pulling his leg or anything.

To his pleasantly delightful surprise, Jack _isn’t_ being an asshole. It’s for an _actual_ small concert, something for Rhys to be the warmup singer to a bigger, somewhat famous band [according to Jack], and his heart is beating so fast he thinks it’s about to burst.

He’s actually going to _sing._ Holy shit— _holy shit._ A dead man actually is – is going to get him—

Rhys presses his hands to his cheeks, a big grin on his face as sweet warmth spreads across his chest and all the way to the tips of his fingers. Laughter bubbles in his chest, and Rhys is—he’s laughing, he’s actually _laughing sincerely._

Something in him breaks, and his laughter quickly turns into sobs. He curls over himself and alternates between choked laughter and shaking cries, and Rhys wants to explain what’s going on with him right now—he really does.

The thoughts in his mind are jumbled, a muddled mess of mistakes that pile on each other and the one tiny shred of hope engulfs them all, and Rhys is sobbing the rest of the day until he nearly falls asleep on the sofa.

 _‘When I wake up,’_ Rhys thinks, eyes fluttering as he tries to stay awake for only a little while longer, _‘I’m going to tell Moxxi that I’m gonna be away for a bit, and tell Jack that I'm gonna take the offer.’_

* * *

“You’re **_actually_ ** gonna take it?” Jack’s voice is high-pitched as he says that, his mouth impossibly wide in a shit-eating grin at Rhys’s words, and he looks like he’s practically _glowing._ “You’re gonna _sign it?_ You’re gonna sing for him, sweetheart?” Jack is reaching out down, one arm wrapping around Rhys and he’s pressed close to him in a way that’s far too intimate, and the laughter that bubbles out of him is uncontrollable.

He does push himself away eventually, when the contact is getting too warm and Jack’s grin is too hot. He stumbles away, but manages to catch himself, because they’re standing in his kitchen when Rhys is supposed to be making himself some tea. It is shitting cold out still, and Rhys wonders if he’ll be able to make a good career and leave for somewhere warmer.

Jack’s still invading his space, and he rests one hand on Rhys’s hip and strokes slow circles with his thumb. “Sooo? So? Answer me, c’mon, _c’mon, Rhys, **Rhyyyyyyysie,”**_ Jack whines, and Rhys gently smacks his hand away.

“I already said that yes. Yes I _will_ work for him. God, Jack, how many times do I have to repeat it to you before you actually get it? I’m gonna sign the contract.”

Something gleams in Jack’s eyes then; they’re wide open and glowing, and Rhys chalks it up to the fact that… the man is a spirit. Supernatural and magical and all that jazz.

It’s sometimes hard to remember that when Jack is so damn physical and alive. “You gonna sign it now? Because I have it with me right here. Well, not _here_ here, but I have it hidden around here somewhere.”

“Sure.” Rhys says, and the way Jack bounces and rushes out of the kitchen is almost cute, in a way. He shakes his head and goes back to actually pouring himself some hot water for his teabag, and Jack is back by the time Rhys has gotten a few sips on his tea.

It’s enough to make his body feel hot and alive, electric and burning with the energy that courses through his veins and arteries. “You ready, Rhys?” Jack says, “because, once ya sign, you can’t really… go back, y’know? Not until you actually sing and see if it’s good for you or nah. You know, restrictive business and all that.”

“Just give me the paper, Jack.” Rhys says, and the man is practically shoving it in his hands – alongside a pen – when Rhys has set his cup aside. He looks around for where he needs to sign, eyes barely skimming the words until he finds the _sign here_ part of the contract.

He’s carefully slow with his signature, which is—it’s stupid. It’s really stupid. But he wants it to look nice and impressive for the man who’s hiring him, and Rhys is smiling at Jack when he hands the signed paper back.

And Jack isn’t smiling back at him anymore.

It’s a flurry of actions, and Rhys blinks and misses it all. He’s slammed against the wall, large – _really, really large –_ hands keeping him pinned against it and claws dig into his shoulders, tearing at his clothes and sinking into his flesh, and –

Jack is curled over him. He’s unnaturally large and broad, taller than Rhys by a good many inches, and he’s overshadowed by the wings protruding from Jack’s back. They spread wide, not even able to fit in his small kitchen, and Rhys stares at the various fluids that drip inside the throbbing, opaque insides of the wings.

They remind him of bird wings—thin and fragile, yet so incredibly powerful, and the veins are large and spreading numerous. It feels as though the wings alone will absorb him, and Rhys doesn’t want to look at the rest of Jack.

“Come _on_ sweetheart,” Jack coos, his voice a growl that echoes ten times and then some, sounding sweet and thick in his ears and Rhys shudders, “ _look at me.”_

He turns his head to Jack, takes in the red and blue of his irises and the black of his eyes. There’s an ugly scar, always hidden away by the mask and now revealed, and Rhys feels bile rise up as he takes in the way pus seems to have permanently settled at the very ends of the scar.

“W- wh—what—“ Rhys barely manages out, choking on his own tongue, and Jack laughs a shrieking laughter as he presses closer. He looks up at the horns that curve out of Jack’s forehead, the base of the skin torn open to let them out, and Rhys’s mouth falls open at the bony, curved horns.

Blackness wraps around Jack’s hips and his legs, from the tips of his fingers all the way to his shoulders, living and breathing, and his chest is covered in a myriad of scars; all of which are large and ugly, pulsing and throbbing with… with _something._

“Don’t like what you see?” Jack purrs, and he’s licking over Rhys’s lips with a sandpaper tongue, and his knees give way. Jack’s his only support, and he’s dragging his nails down his chest. “Ohhhooo kiddo, _kiddo, kiddo, **kiddo.**_ You are _far_ too **easy.** ”

“J… Jack?” Rhys squeaks out, his entire body trembling, and those vaguely green lips pull back to reveal sharp, _sharp sharp **sharp,**_ rows of teeth. He can’t muster up any air to speak, and his mouth is falling open again.

Those teeth scrape against the side of his neck, and he feels blood bead on his skin. “Oh Rhys,” Jack sighs, “you have _no clue_ how much I’ve **_wanted you._** ”

The monster before him backs away and grabs at his face, and he grins with a charm that even the devil is sure to envy.

He can’t breathe.

“Remember when I said I gotta disappear, princess?” Jack hisses out, his voice an unwanted, honeyed welcome, “you’re going to come **_with me._** ”

“You **_agreed_** after all.”

 

No. No. _No. No he did not. This is not what he agreed to. This is not what he agreed to._

Rhys’s eyes fall on the contract that is abandoned on the kitchen, and his pupils constrict when he watches it crumble into ash.

 

No. **_No!_**

****

****

Jack presses Rhys against his body, and the only thing he can move is his head. He looks up at Jack, barely flinches as the wings bend and seem to wrap around them both. “You’re coming with _me,”_ his voice echoes with a gross mockery of love and fondness, and Rhys chokes on his words. A gentle kiss is pressed to his forehead, and Rhys closes his eyes.

“I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

 

 

His cup of tea grows cold, and the ash is blown away by nothing. His phone rings on the coffee table, over and over and over, and Rhys isn’t there to hear it.

A shame, really. Someone misses him.


End file.
